


Important

by round_robin



Series: Important [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, not series two compatible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 07:41:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events at the pool, Sherlock realizes just how important John is to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Important

**Author's Note:**

> My idea of what happened after the pool. We all know it won't work this way, but I like it. Not betaed or Brit-picked.

The soft, eerie glow of the heart monitor was the only thing to illuminate the room. Other diodes, and the low light of the rising sun through the windows added their piece, but the heart monitor was the only important thing as far as Sherlock was concerned. It was the thing that told him John was still alive.

He could still hear it, or rather, feel it. The percussive explosion that damn near shattered his ear drums, and the solid weight of one John Watson pushing him into the pool. Fluid dynamics 101: water slows down the force of an explosion. Sherlock even tested the theory himself—years ago, for a case—and found that a mere five feet of water will protect the body from the worst damage of an explosion. Eight feet will protect one from bullets.

Oh, if only there were bullets. Bullet wounds would’ve been simpler. Easy little holes to be patched up. Easier. Better than the blood that still ran from Sherlock’s ear hours after they made it to the hospital, because he would not—would NOT—let them take him away from John. Yes… bullets would’ve been better. Far better than head trauma.

John’s head. John’s lovely head. That’s where his mouth was, the mouth that told Sherlock to shut up. A lot of people told Sherlock to shut up, but John was the only one he actually listened to. Well, a good fifty percent of the time, he listened. Call it sixty. And he would listen now. He would do anything John asked, if the man would just. Open. His. Eyes.

And his brain, oh, John’s brain. He wasn’t as clever as Sherlock, but he was cleverer than most. He could keep up. Sherlock, of all people, knew how rare that was. Up until he met John, the only person who could keep up (or at least pretend to keep up successfully) was Mycroft.

But now John’s head was broken—hairline fracture, the doctor said, slight concussion, he’ll be fine—and worse. Sherlock could remember. He could still hear the sickening crack it made as John struck the edge of the pool. Because John, brave John, stupid John, decided to push Sherlock down before him. He made sure the consulting detective was safe before even giving a thought to his own safety as they outran the blast.

Why would he do that? Sherlock was younger, and far more resilient. He didn’t have a bum shoulder or a psychosomatic anything. He was larger too, he could’ve shielded John much better. So why?

And why, for the love of God, wouldn’t he wake up?

“I really shouldn’t be telling him anything,” Doctor what’s-his-name said to Lestrade in that exasperated tone of voice that made Sherlock want to throttle the information out of him. “He’s not family.” Instead, he just sat there, holding John’s unconscious hand as the nurse cleaned and checked his ear.

That was the deal: Lestrade would get the stupid doctor to ignore the fact that Sherlock wasn’t _technically_ family, if he let them tend to his injury. His only injury. As opposed to John’s three bruised ribs, broken wrist, cracked skull and fucking concussion.

Sherlock was about to snap at the man. Push the nurse away and yell at the top of his lungs, when Lestrade did something remarkable. He stepped forward, blocking Sherlock from the other man and grabbed the doctor’s elbow. “Look, it’s not on paper, but Sherlock Holmes is the closest thing to family that Dr. Watson has. You will tell him.”

In a show of manipulation Sherlock didn’t master until he was twelve, Lestrade held the doctor’s gaze for one very long moment. Finally, it became too much and he dropped his eyes, nodding. He flipped over the pages on John’s chart and began reading.

The medical-mumbo-jumbo was more complex than he would give any other family member—probably to protest the fact that he really didn’t want to do this—but Sherlock understood it all. He understood how bad the concussion was “not serious, but not exactly the best thing to do to a brain,” the doctor said, and he understood what that meant: they weren’t sure when John was going to wake up.

“Could be hours, could be days,” the doctor said, finally relenting and speaking to Sherlock like a frightened family member. “That’s good because the longer he’s out, the longer his body has to heal most of the head trauma and he’ll regain normal function faster.” But. Sherlock could see the but written all over the man’s face. “But, the longer he’s out, the more likely it is that he’ll slip into a coma.”

With a curt nod, Sherlock looked away from the doctor and turned back to John, taking up his hand again and falling deathly silent. He wasn’t speaking before, but now, Lestrade could barely hear his breathing. The nurse went back to tending Sherlock’s ear, her fingers snaking down every once and a while to take his pulse.

After a moment of silence, the doctor left. The nurse followed soon after, but Lestrade stayed. Because he alone knew what was going on. In the five years of knowing Sherlock, he only saw him like this twice, and both times it was on a case that the detective couldn’t crack with one stray look. This was serious business, and Lestrade knew that.

For hours, he sat and watched Sherlock at John’s sick bed. Anyone who didn’t know the man would say he was staring off into space, daydreaming. He wasn’t. In fact, Sherlock’s brain was working so hard, he literally shut out every other signal from his body. The first time Lestrade saw him get like this, he was surprised steam wasn’t coming out of his ears.

Hours later, after the sun set and the room plunged into darkness, Sherlock was still sitting there. Still thinking.

Ever since the nurse finished with his ear and that idiot doctor finally told him what was wrong, Sherlock turned his attention to the heart monitor. There it stayed as he formulated his plan.

“Right,” Sherlock said.

The sound was so sudden that Lestrade jerked, nearly falling out of the chair he occupied for the past fifteen hours. “What?” He asked, surprised by the first words Sherlock said since Lestrade found them at the destroyed pool.

“I have to go.” Sherlock pretended not to hear him. He does have a perforated eardrum, after all; hearing loss is understandable.

He was in a flurry of movement when Lestrade finally managed to pull himself out of the chair. “Sherlock,” he said, tired eyes trying to follow the mad detective around the room. “You have to stay.”

“No,” he shook his head and pulled on his scarf. “I have to go. I have to end this.” Because if Moriarty thought he could take John away, oh, was he in for a surprise.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade yelled. But Sherlock was already running past him and out the door. “Sherlock!” He yelled again. He was down the hall, almost through the doors. Not even sparing a look to see if anyone might overhear, Lestrade said the only thing that would make Sherlock stop. “If you’re not here when he wakes up, I will arrest you!”

And that did it. Hand on the handle of the door, Sherlock slammed to a halt and Lestrade took that as a cue to get out what he needed to say.

He walked out of the room, striding down the hallway until he stood right next to Sherlock, who barely acknowledged Lestrade’s presence, but turned his good ear towards the DI. “I don’t care what you’re planning on doing,” he whispered. “If this Moriarty bloke happens to turn up in the Thames tomorrow, I don’t care. But if you aren’t here when John wakes up, I will arrest you.

“I will go to your flat, I will find the key of cocaine you have hidden in the loose sideboard next to your stove,” Sherlock didn’t react, but the minute bob of his Adam’s apple spoke loud and clear. Yeah, Lestrade could deduce shit too. “I will have a car tail you and if you so much as jay walk, I will bring you in. I will abuse my power more spectacularly than I ever have on your behalf.

“So go ahead and do whatever you like, but if his eyes open and you’re not there, then there’s a cell in at the Yard we’ve been saving for you. Understand?” He ended in a deadly hiss, his mouth all but pressed to Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock gave a tight nod. “Understood.”

“Right,” Lestrade nodded and stepped back. “Off you go.”

Sherlock was out the door before the words were fully out of his mouth.

Running out the front doors of Bart’s A&E, Sherlock slid his phone into one hand and threw out the other for a taxi. A car showed up just as he fired off two texts, one to Mike and one to Molly.

 

_John’s at Bart’s. Second floor, ward 6, room 19. Text me on the hour with his condition._

**  
_SH_   
**

**  
**Molly replied immediately with a long, gushy note about how sorry she was about Jim and all that havoc. Sherlock didn’t read it, just looked up at the cab driver. “221B Baker Street,” he said quickly before reading Mike’s answer. A simple yes. Excellent.

When the cab pulled up in front of Baker Street, Sherlock dug in his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. He knew it was more than the ride cost, but he didn’t have time for change and quickly ran inside 221.

The door was unlocked, which didn’t seem all that remarkable at the moment. He was too preoccupied with plans. And where exactly did that tie get to?

But when Sherlock reached the flat, he stopped cold. Oh. That’s why the door was unlocked.

“I don’t have time for this,” he ground out between his teeth and immediately set out looking for the red tie.

“I really think you should stop and think about this.” Mycroft said from the armchair. His umbrella was unusually still in his hands. This must be serious.

“Get out of my flat.” Sherlock said, but with less fervor. Where was that tie?

“Check the laundry.” Mycroft suggested.

Despite not wanting to be seen actually listening to his brother, Sherlock nodded and ducked out of the flat. Down the stairs to where Mrs. Hudson kept the laundry closet. Sitting on top of the washer—ah! The red tie!

Long legs took the steps three at a time until he was back in the flat. Mycroft was still there—unimportant. Only John mattered.

“John will be fine,” Mycroft said as Sherlock ran to the window, still in pieces from the bomb. Didn’t matter. There was a particularly jagged piece of wood that formed sort of a hook, so that’s where the red tie went. It swung back and forth for a moment before coming to a stop.

“He has the best doctor at Bart’s.” Mycroft tried again.

“That man’s an idiot.” Sherlock snarled, eyes watching the red tie.

His brother gave a deep sigh. Sherlock knew that look. ‘Oh, why am I cursed with such a sibling?’ He just rolled his eyes.

“Yes, well, I spoke to the idiot,” he continued. “He says that John will be fine. He should wake up soon.”

“Soon,” Sherlock spat the world. “Isn’t good enough.” He whirled around, eyes locking with Mycroft’s. “Soon is relative. It’s inexact. It’s useless. That,” one arm flew out to point at the red tie in the window. “Is more useful to me than _soon_.”

Mycroft’s eyes lingered on the red silk for a moment before looking back at his younger brother. That long-suffering look was there again. “If you say so.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You’re more useful than soon, as well.” He couldn’t believe the words coming from his mouth, but there they were.

Apparently, Mycroft couldn’t believe it either. Eyebrows shot up to his hairline, giving the most surprised look Mycroft was capable of. “Pardon?” He asked.

It was too late to take back, so Sherlock nodded. “You heard me.” He said. “All those resources you use to spy on me. The cameras and microphones you wallpapered the flat with,” Mycroft wouldn’t even deny it. “You could help me.”

A subtle twitch of an eyebrow. Surprising Mycroft twice in as many minutes was not an easy thing to do. His eyes roved across Sherlock’s face, taking in the slightly manic expression: the wide eyes, the heaving chest, and most of all the worry. The fear. All for John Watson.

“You say you’re concerned about me.” Sherlock continued. “John concerns me. He should concern you too.”

“Faulty logic, Sherlock,” Mycroft said.

And that was it. Sherlock snapped.

“This isn’t about logic!” He growled out, seconds away from tearing at his hair. “It’s about Jim Moriarty, thinking that he can take John away from me! Thinking that he’s just a thing to be possessed. He’s not, and Jim is going to learn that. I will find him and I will kill him. And he will never hurt John again.”

For a long moment, Mycroft sat there, umbrella completely still in his hand, staring up at his brother’s face. Sherlock didn’t… explode like that. He didn’t let emotion get the better of him. So for it to affect him like this….

Standing up from the chair, Mycroft flicked an invisible piece of lint from his lapels, anything to keep from looking at the wrecked expression on his brother’s face. “What are you asking me to do?” He asked.

It took a second to realize that Mycroft might actually be offering to help him. It took another second for Sherlock to respond. “You have resources,” he said again. “If you wanted, you could have Jim Moriarty in your custody in seconds.” Probably not, Moriarty was too smart for that, but if it flattered Mycroft’s ego, Sherlock would say it. Anything to get his hands on the man who thought he could take John like he was a thing.

“Perhaps,” he nodded. Good, Sherlock thought, at least he knows there are limits to his power. But also, bad. Because he needed those limits to disappear right now.

Silence again. Mycroft swung his umbrella a bit before speaking again. “The cameras will be off for the next forty-eight hours. That’s all I can give you.” Fortunately, it was enough. Now, Sherlock could kill the bastard in peace.

With a tense nod, Mycroft turned and walked out of the flat.

 

~

 

Six hours later, the red tie worked.

Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs and opened the door of 221B, frowning softly. “Oh, Sherlock dear,” she sighed, tiptoeing through the debris from the explosion two days ago. “You shouldn’t be here in this mess. You should be at the hospital with Dr. Watson.”

He shook his head and let the little old woman lay her hand on his shoulder. “I’m waiting for a message,” he said. “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” he said in a whisper.

Mrs. Hudson wrinkled her brow. “Why do you say that?”

“The message,” he answered. “That’s what I’m waiting for.”

Silence for thirty seconds before: “Strange. Because there’s a boy at the door who told me to tell you that.”

Sherlock’s head turned so quickly, his neck cracked. “What?” He asked, looking at Mrs. Hudson for the first time since she entered the flat.

She nodded. “A little boy at the door,” she repeated. “It looks like he’s sleeping rough. I offered him some—Sherlock!”

He didn’t wait around to hear the rest of her sentence, just stood up from the sofa and bounded out the door. Down the stairs, towards the front door, hand digging in his pocket for some notes. Please, please, please.

Fingers scraped against paper. He yanked it out of his pocket just as he saw the boy—now sitting on the curb outside—and ran out to him. “What have you heard?” He asked.

The boy’s eyes focused up on him, then slid down to the note in his hands. Twenty pounds. It would do. Without saying a word, the boy climbed to his feet and handed Sherlock a piece of paper. Usually deft (now shaking) fingers slid it from his hand and put the twenty pound note in its place. The boy nodded and turned, walking away.

Wait. Wait. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Turning slowly, Sherlock walked back to the door and shut it behind himself, note still unread in his hand.

Mrs. Hudson stood on the bottom step, waiting for him. “What was all that about, dear?” She asked.

But Sherlock didn’t say anything. He walked back up to the flat and grabbed his coat, sliding it over his shoulders. “I have to go out. Don’t wait up.” He said. And with a quick kiss pressed to the old woman’s cheek, he was off.

Back down the stairs and into the street. Only there did he open the piece of paper the boy gave him.

 

_King’s Cross_

 

Was all it said. But it was enough.

 

~

 

Thirty-four hours later, a thin, pale throat slowly crushed under Sherlock’s gloved hands. No begging, no pleading, just dying. Slowly. Wide, insane eyes bulged out at him as he squeezed and squeezed and squeezed….

Sherlock would give anything to feel that soft, surprisingly tender, skin bruise and tear under his fingers. But that would be a mistake. Bare skin meant evidence. Lestrade might overlook this, but Sherlock doubted that anyone else would.

“The game…” that ragged, destroyed voice managed to rasp out just as Sherlock applied enough pressure to crush his windpipe.

“The game,” he snarled. “Doesn’t matter. It never did.”

Blood vessels in those cold, dead eyes smashed, flooding everything with red. Livid purple bruises crawled up his throat and finally, finally, finally, feet stopped thrashing under Sherlock.

But Sherlock wasn’t stupid. He waited another moment before moving. Then, with a quick twist of his hands, he cracked the dead neck. Only then did he pull away. Sit back, admire the scene. A solid lump of broken bone stuck out the side of the neck, making a rather impressive lump. The skin was completely discolored—red, purple, even a bit of blue—and there was blood from where Sherlock’s gloves irritated the skin so much, it broke open.

There. Perfect.

A feeling of satisfaction coiled in Sherlock’s belly, making him feel normal for the first time in days. It was finally over.

Then, just as he was standing up, putting his disposal plan in action (Lestrade’s suggestion of the Thames was very good) his mobile buzzed. Sherlock stopped cold.

For the past two days, Molly and Mike fulfilled their duties fantastically. Every hour on the hour, Sherlock had messages from Mike, telling him about John’s blood pressure and his EKG readings. Every hour on the half, Molly sent him picture messages of John so Sherlock could see the color returning to the pale man’s abused body. But right now, it wasn’t the o’clock or the half. It was eighteen past. So what business did his mobile have at buzzing like this when he still had work to do?

But the text wasn’t from Mike or Molly. It was from Lestrade.

 

_Get back here._

Those three little words screamed as if they were in capitals, and Sherlock knew what it meant: John was waking up.

The body forgotten, Sherlock slid his mobile back into his pocket and ran. A cab would take too long and it was only three miles to Bart’s. So he ran.

 

~

 

The door banged open and Lestrade almost jumped out of his skin. “How is he?” Sherlock demanded.

“Fine,” Lestrade said once his heart crawled out of his throat. His eyes swept over Sherlock. “Jeez, you look like hell. What’ve you been doing?”

“Ran here,” he huffed out between breaths, but his eyes were glued to John. Still unconscious in the bed. His bumps and bruises looked improved—dull colors meant healing, bright ones meant pain—but otherwise, things looked about the same.

“You ran?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock nodded. “From Baker Street?”

“No.”

When he didn’t continue, the DI rolled his eyes and chalked it up to stress. “Right, they say he should be out of it soon.”

Sherlock fought the groan that built in his throat. That word again, soon. That horrible, inexact word that yielded no data whatsoever.

“Lestrade—”

But Lestrade was having none of it. “Soon,” he growled. “Meaning in the next hour. About an hour ago, he started moving. He started talking.” He gave Sherlock a pointed glance. “Doctors say that’s significant. The more he moves, the more his mind is coming out of it. He should be around in the next hour, maybe two.”

Alright, Sherlock could accept this definition of soon. While still inexact and infuriating, he had a window. “Talking?” He asked. Lestrade nodded. “What did he say?”

As if answering the question himself, John moaned softly. The room fell silent as Sherlock attuned all his senses on his flatmate. “Sherlo’k,” he mumbled.

“That’s what he said,” Lestrade’s voice dropped to a whisper.

Without another word, Sherlock slid onto the stool he occupied roughly two days ago. Again, his hands moved to take John’s until he was sitting in exactly the same position as before. As if he never left.

Lestrade knew he should go. He knew this was not the place for him, now of all times, but… “Is there anything you… _need_?” He asked, regretting the words almost as soon as he said them.

Sherlock didn’t move at first, but after a few seconds he nodded. Pulling a piece of paper and a hundred pound note out of his pocket, he handed it back to Lestrade. “There is a boy waiting outside. Standing next to the third lamp post outside the A&E doors. Tell him Sherlock Holmes sent you, and hand him that. Then walk away.”

Lestrade cleared his throat and took the paper and the note with shaking fingers. He knew what this was—of course he did. And he did say he wouldn’t arrest Sherlock if he came back in time….

“Right,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, just kept his eyes on John as the DI exited the room. His fingers tightened around John’s hand.

 

~

 

John Watson’s eyes opened on a dark room. Machines beeped softly around him; dark hospital room, then.

He laid there for a moment, trying to summon his faculties, before everything hit him: the pool. The bomb. Sherlock—

John tried to move and pain spiraled through nearly every part of him. No moving then, just laying there. Yeah, that worked. He stayed still for another minute, assessing his injuries.

The tight wrappings around his chest (so tight he could hardly draw a full breath) told him that he probably had a few broken ribs. Maybe bruised, though. The cast on his wrist wasn’t hard to figure out, and as for the splitting headache and the nausea rolling in his stomach, probably a concussion. All-in-all, not too bad, considering he was just blown up.

But Sherlock. What about Sherlock?

A dull, heavy pressure at his hip moved, both answering his question and bringing up new ones. John looked down to see a messy mop of black hair atop the long, lean ghost bent over the bed, head leaned down to rest on his hip. Sherlock. Sherlock was okay. He wasn’t hurt, or dead, or laying in the bed beside him.

John quickly thanked whatever good luck watched over the insane man and brought his uninjured hand down on top of that hair. Sherlock’s back twitched and his head turned.

“John,” he whispered. Tired—exhausted—eyes, shaded with deep, dark circles smiled up at him.

John smiled back. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” He said. His hand stayed on Sherlock’s head, and the other man didn’t seem to mind.

“No, it’s fine.” He brought his arms up onto the bed and lightly gripped John’s hips, as if making sure he was real. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

That was exactly the answer John didn’t want to hear. Well, maybe he should have all the facts before he judged how worried Sherlock should be over him. “Hand me my chart?” John nodded towards the end of the bed.

Sherlock looked almost sad that he had to let go of the man, but he did. Silently stood and reached over, grabbing the chart in less than two seconds. Two seconds of not touching John was two seconds too much.

“Thanks,” John nodded and flipped through the pages. Just what he thought: bruised ribs, broken wrist and—“Wow,”—fractured skull. Concussion too, but that was a pretty standard part of the cracked skull package. He smiled up at Sherlock. “I’m lucky to be alive.”

John was going for joking, but Sherlock’s grip on his hips just tightened. A shadow that had nothing to do with exhaustion stole across the younger man’s face. John heaved a heavy sigh and set the chart aside, returning his hand to Sherlock’s hair. He seemed to calm at that and John tried not to read too much into it. The man who hated being touched, suddenly couldn’t stand not touching John. Which begged the question: how bad was he? Really?

“How long have I been out?” John asked.

“Too long,” Sherlock said into John’s hip. “Fifty-eight hours and twenty-three minutes.” Of course he had an exact count.

“Alright,” John nodded. “That’s not bad. My body just needed more time to heal….” But his words trailed off as Sherlock continued to stare at him. Like he couldn’t believe John was alive. Then John realized. “Sherlock,” he asked carefully. “How long have you been sitting here?”

“I wasn’t here the whole time.” He said. John sighed in relief. “I should have been.”

And with those words, more questions and tension filled John. “But…” he tried to find the words. “Why?”

Oh, clearly the wrong question. The broken look on Sherlock’s face was too much, far too much. “I should have been here the whole time.” Sherlock said in a firm tone that sent a shiver up John’s spine. “Moriarty did what he did,” kidnapped, John, wrapped him up in semtex, threatened him, _blew him up_ “to hurt me. It worked, he hurt me,” fingers tightened on John’s hips. “I wanted to hurt him back.”

Right, John understood. “So you spent two and a half days gallivanting around London, looking for a man who hid from you for months?”

Another tight nod. “Before, it was just a game.” He said. “But when I saw you—” his breath hitched and fingers pressed harder into John’s hips, biting at bruises he couldn’t see under the blankets.

But John didn’t care, what he did care about was the look in those pale, blue eyes. Fear. Sherlock was afraid. Afraid for John? Why?

Reading the question in John’s eyes, Sherlock pressed his head up into the hand absently twirling through his hair. “You’re… important, to me, John. And until Moriarty tried to take you away, I didn’t know how important.”

A warm feeling blossomed in John’s chest. For all his cold, carelessness towards the world, moments like this reminded John that Sherlock did indeed have a heart. His hand rubbed through the man’s hair again. “You’re important to me too, Sherlock.” He smiled.

“No,” Sherlock said. The look he was giving John… so intense, burning…. The smaller man’s smile faded. “You’re _important_.” He said again.

All at once, it clicked. “Oh,” John whispered.

“Yes,” he nodded.

John laid there for a minute, dark blue eyes locked with that molten silver, as he thought about what Sherlock was telling him. “But I thought,” he started. “I thought you were married to your work?” His throat suddenly went dry and it came out as more of a squeak.

Sherlock nodded against John’s hip. “I thought so too.”

And suddenly—just like that—they were too far apart. “Come here,” John said, reaching for Sherlock’s shoulders.

He didn’t need to be told twice. Sherlock climbed out of the chair and onto the bed, squeezing his whip-thin body between John and the bedrail. Though, he was very careful not to actually touch the man. He didn’t want to aggravate some unseen, unknown injury. John was already broken, and Sherlock was not about to make it worse, not when this was already his fault.

But John was having none of this. As soon as Sherlock was next to him, he reached over and wrapped his good hand around the consulting detective’s neck, bringing them nose to nose. “I’m fine,” he whispered, barely an inch between their lips. “Moriarty didn’t win. You’ll get him—you will.”

Sherlock’s hand wound up to wrap long fingers over John’s elbow. “He thought he could take you away,” he said, barely able to suppress the shudder in his voice. “He thought he could take you away because you were just my pet. You’re not, John, you’re not. You’re more. You’re _important_.” That word again. So exact. It said everything Sherlock couldn’t.

“We’ll get him,” John said. “We’ll get him.”

“You’re _important_.” Sherlock said again. “Important, important, so important, John.” Sherlock wasn’t making sense. He needed to calm down, stop dwelling on this.

“Yes, Sherlock,” John said. “You’re important to me too.”

Then, he pressed forward, covering that inch between them and their lips finally met. Sherlock kissed back with surprising gentleness. After all these months dancing around each other, John half expected their first kiss to be all teeth and passion and tension finally snapping everything in half. Instead, it was soft, almost chaste. Like Sherlock didn’t want to break him.

John supposed there would be time for those deep, passionate kisses, but this was fine for now. It was bloody fantastic. Because when Sherlock said he was important? To John, it sounded like ‘I love you.’

 

The End


End file.
